Billion Dollars Baby
by fscomeau
Summary: When Richard Belker's daughter disappears in impossible circumstances, no one can explain what happened: Amelie Belker has simply vanished in thin air. Knowing he can only call the best, Richard makes Sherlock an offer he simply cannot refuse. Who kidnapped Amelie Belker? And how? New Chapter every Saturday.


The moment Sherlock opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong.

He, who usually took the greatest pride in remembering everything and every little detail, could hardly remember what had happened. Someone– 5'11, bald, around 260 lbs, long gray pants and expensive, real-leather jacket - had asked him what time it was and then nothing.

As Sherlock tried to move around in the small space he was confined in, the pain in his head quickly reminded him that he had been knocked out. He ought to tell them: there were better way to knock someone unconscious. Chloroform, for once, would have been much easier.

He should have known, he should have guessed. Who asks for the time these days? Cellphones were pretty much everywhere. Looking back at the situation, Sherlock started to realize he had been careless. Still, the place was public, open and there were people all around. Who kidnaps people in full public view?

He was in a car – given the sound of the motor, traveling fast – and the lack of stops made him believe they were on the highway. Sherlock wondered if John would worry for him – he had, after all, only left him for a minute. Surely by now he would have called the police.

As the car came to a stop, Sherlock heard the door of the trunk open in a clash and, immediately, the blazing sun blinded him. Two large men, one on each side, dragged him up the stairs.

He had been brought at a stunningly beautiful palace which extended as far as he could see in every direction. The stairs, in imported marble, were flawlessly clean and the two pillars holding the entrance were absolutely magnificent. Even the roof, in tessellated red bricks, was a piece of art in itself. At this moment, Sherlock thought that the person who had asked for his help was nothing short of extremely rich and it reminded me how Wattson kept chivvying him to make more money for the rent. They had been solving crimes, bringing justice and helping people – were they really that short on money?

Sherlock made every effort to look around and remind every face the best he could. If his abductors were planning to remain anonymous, they had made absolutely no effort to hide their faces or who they were; even the maids walked unaltered, as if Sherlock wasn't even there.

"Did you bring him?" he heard as they passed a large, luxurious oak door.

"Yes, my lord," replied the man to his right.

"My God! What have you done!" exclaimed the man giving the orders as they passed the door.

"Sir – we brought Mr. Sherlock Holmes as required."

"Yes but not my force!" exclaimed the man, emotively. "I told you to bring Sherlock Holmes, I didn't tell you to kidnap him for pigs' sake! Are you guys crazy?"

"Sir…" The two men stopped dead in their tracks; clearly, they knew only one version of the "bring him here" and it implied physical strength. Hesitating, they stood in place as Sherlock moved forward.

The man was, in all appearance, extremely rich and, given his dressing, quite profligate. As the man dismissed his two gorillas from the room in a single move – briskly, but not aggressively - Sherlock made sure to note every detail he could. Suit – custom-made. Italian, top-tier, one of the most renowned designer. Pants – old-ish, linen, of American provenance. Shoes – also Italians. cleaned and waxed everyday. Not by the man. Room – statues from all over the world. Dead animals nailed on the wall. Nineteen paintings, seven of them fakes. Conclusion: this man: Richard Belker, multi-billionaire energy investor, amateur hunter, wine dilettante and nautical expert. One of the richest men on the planet.

"I'm very sorry for what happened. Apparently, my directives were not clear enough and I should have mentioned the "invitation" part more clearly. Obviously, I would be happy if you made no mention of this little incident to any newspaper." The man moved closer as the two security agents shut the door loudly.

"Could I offer you a glass of scotch as a… Good-willed apology?" continued the man. Bottle – Bowmore 1955, single mart, 7,000 pounds a bottle. Bottle half-empty.

"You know what they say," replied Sherlock. "No scotch before dinner. What do you want?"

"Direct to business, eh? I like that. When I started my first business, I…" The man went on a long tirade that Sherlock was neither interested in or fond of. Apparently, Richard Belker had made his first millions by being the first to patent a technology to extract oil underwater, cutting off his partners in the process. As Richard continued his long prolix, the door opened and a maid brought a pack of ice in a towel, interrupting the billionaire.

"Finally," thought Sherlock, bringing the towel to his head. With that shock, he could not think clearly.

"Well, mind my manners! You just arrived here and already I'm harassing you with my boring stories. Have I really gotten that old? In any event I bet you're wondering why I invited you here."

_"Invited_," thought Sherlock. Already, the man was talking like the incident of which Sherlock had been the victim was a thing of the past. It never happened.

"I believe that was my original question," he simply said.

"Oh Mr. Holmes, efficient and direct. I like it. They say…" Richard Belker drank from his glass slowly, sipping every drop of clear-tinted scotch as slowly as he could.

"My advisors, they say you're quite a clever man. They've read your website, they've read your adventures, and my contacts in the MI6… Anyway, it's not really important. But, as they say, I prefer to judge things with my own eyes. So go ahead, Sherlock Holmes. Show me. Tell me three things about myself you couldn't possibly have read in the newspaper."

"Is this a test?" replied Sherlock. If it was, it wasn't a very tough one. Fine – he would play.

"First, your bottle of scotch is filled with a much cheaper variant of the drink you so arduously display. The scotch that was originally in that bottle is a darker, amber-like one. Maybe you just purchased the bottle – no, you did that on purpose, to see if I would notice it. Also, the glass you're using is technically a cognac glass, not a scotch one, and you're drinking scotch incorrectly. That's three already, but I don't believe that what you wanted from me." Sherlock took a deep breath and then continued.

"Second, you have no contacts in the MI6. You said that as an attempt to impress me – it failed. If you really had contacts in the MI6, you wouldn't have needed to abduct me in the first place as there are far better ways to contact me. Last of all, you did actually ask your agents to kidnap me as you were afraid I would refuse if you had asked me directly. You instead decided to play this little, artificial game which was, quite sincerely, very painful to witness."

Richard looked impressed, if not for a second. "So, my acting is really not what it used to be. That, or you're really good."

"The idea of putting all this as some sort of huge miscommunication is extremely dumb as best, and the fact you wouldn't fire them on the spot is even dumber. So now, are you going to tell me why I'm here?"

"Well, I… Happen to have some work for you."

"Not interested." Sherlock had enough on his hands as it was and he didn't like the idea of giving Mr. Billionaire, who apparently thought it was a decent idea to attack him to get his cooperation, a free pass. In any event, it would most likely be some boring chasing and goofing around, some trivial and unimportant problem to solve in minutes.

"I suppose you'll at least let me explain what it is?"

"Do I have a choice?" replied Sherlock, sternly.

"No. You really don't. It's about my daughter. She… vanished."

"Call the police," replied Sherlock.

"That's the thing. I've called the police already, of course. And private investigators. And other experts in the field. They were… powerless." Sherlock, already, was getting a bit more curious. "I'm afraid it's rather complex. My daughter disappeared while we were on our private yacht, in the middle of the Ocean."

"She jumped overboard."

"No sir. We were on a boat. The cameras clearly filmed her entering her room. She never left it and when we went to check on her the next day, she was gone."

"A secret trap, then. She ran away."

"There are no secret traps on my boat, Mr. Holmes. And even if you believe the security tapes were rigged –which they might very well be – then _who _did it? We were on a boat in the middle of the ocean. The police, investigators, even other private detectives – nobody knows, and nobody has any idea. Hence why I went looking for the best."

Sherlock pondered the situation a moment: surely there would be a simple explanation. Not finding one without second, Sherlock promptly said, "I'm sure you will find what happened in time."

"Well here's the thing, Mr. Holmes. My daughter is gone. She disappearead. Kidnapped, most likely. For money, what else. I'm… scared. Afraid. And I want you – and you personally – on this.. I believe you are the best and I only want the best for my daughter. Let's be clear: I will not accept 'no' for an answer."

Richard opened his desk drawer; what was he going to threaten him with this time? But to Sherlock's surprise, Richard pulled out a lengthy contract, probably believing being nice was more effective than being threatening.

"This is a contract that states that if you find my daughter well and alive, I will personally give you one billion dollars. That's right: one whole billion dollars to find her. That's my offer. As I said, I've read your website, so if I could suggest a title for this story, might it be…Hmm… _Billion Dollar Baby…_"


End file.
